


On the Eve of Battle

by ladyoldstones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, First Time, Political Jon Snow, Pre Battle for Winterfell, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoldstones/pseuds/ladyoldstones
Summary: “I don’t love her, Sansa. I never did.” Jon took a step towards her as he spoke, eyes smoldering. His words were low, nearly a growl in the heat of the desperate, illicit passion that burned for this woman before him, desperate to make her understand.She nodded, thick and heavy and hard to move yet moving all too fast. Her emotions bubbled, finally released from the pressure that began building upon her arrival at Castle Black when she saw her then-brother who’d come back from death. A death where nothing awaited them, and all they had was what was here, and what was now.“I know,” she exclaimed, half a sob, half a plea.His hands reached her first, grasping her face as his lips crushed to hers.





	On the Eve of Battle

_ Nightfall. Nightfall. Nightfall. Nightfall. Before the sun comes up tomorrow.  _

Jon could feel his pulse thrumming through his veins, daring to set his muscles alight, preparing his bones for war so that maybe, just maybe, he’d make it out of this fight alive. 

_ If I fall, don’t bring me back. _

The Dead were inching ever closer every minute, every second, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to focus on them, not yet, not yet, not until -

The sound of his own silence stirred him from his thoughts, the last of his footsteps echoing off the grey stone corridor. The walls nearly wept in the heat of the torches, set aflame against the cold that crept ahead of his enemies. Those stone walls had been built by his mother’s people, and he’d be damned if he saw them fall under his watch.

_ Night gathers and now my watch begins. _

He raised a hand to knock on the wooden door ahead of him, but he heard the click of the latch before his fist, white as bone, met the dark oak before it. 

Blue eyes met grey, sky and smoke, and Jon felt the breath go out of him, as though he’d fallen from the top of the Wall itself.

_ The Wall has fallen. The Dead are coming. _

She watched him from within the Lord’s Chambers, immediately opening the door further to grant him entry.

She knew he’d come, at some time or another. She’d seen the passing glances, the mesermized stares when he thought she hadn’t noticed. She’d seen them before. Not the same, surely not, for the men before him were beasts and monsters. The look in Jon’s eyes was one of lust, yes, but also one of affection and love so deep she felt she might drown in the deepest seas, or suffocate on the thinnest air. 

She’d felt the heat curl in her own belly time and time again, but she’d ignored it for as long as she could as simple desperation. None of it was fitting, she knew, and yet she swore she dared not deny herself this pleasure if it came to her. She thought for a time that that would only be in the dreams she dared not tell anyone else.

But then her brother turned cousin returned from the south with a silver-haired Targaryen Queen. Beautiful and brutal and bedded, she was, and Sansa couldn’t stand the sight of her. Perhaps she should have thanked this queen for coming to their aid, but as Sansa watched, listened, and remembered, she realized that Daenerys Targaryen came for Jon, but Jon brought her for her dragons and her dragons alone, however much good they would do against the dark night that approached them. 

She stared at him now, this bastard turned heir, who invited himself to her bed chamber on the eve of battle and felt that heat continue to burn, never ceasing. 

“Sansa… I…” Jon’s breath came almost in gulps he tried to calm, knowing they were numbered and approaching their end, savoring the scent of lemon water that came off of her in waves.

Sansa swallowed hard, unsure of herself. She dared not touch him, in case she was wrong, very wrong, but she dared not present herself as a wall of ice either. 

“Jon. I’m glad you came,” she said, eyes lit by firelight. 

Jon knew he’d come with a speech, a few phrases tucked away to help him when he’d finally approach her, but when he saw her, carved by fire and dressed in black armor that set her hair ablaze, he could think of nothing sensical. He searched his mind, trying to find the right turn of phrase to get her to see, to understand, and then -

“I don’t love her, Sansa. I never did.” Jon took a step towards her as he spoke, eyes smoldering. His words were low, nearly a growl in the heat of the desperate, illicit passion that burned for this woman before him, desperate to  _ make _ her understand. 

She nodded, thick and heavy and hard to move yet moving all too fast. Her emotions bubbled, finally released from the pressure that began building upon her arrival at Castle Black when she saw her then-brother who’d come back from death. A death where nothing awaited them, and all they had was what was here, and what was now.

“I know,” she exclaimed, half a sob, half a plea. 

His hands reached her first, grasping her face as his lips crushed to hers. She was soft, too soft against his mouth, the heat of her stirring further what had already begun within him. His hands dropped to her waist, grasping her with a force that made her yelp. Jon moved along her chin, her jaw, along her her earlobe and down her neck, marking his way down her body.

“I love you, Sansa,” he gasped against the collar of her leathers. “And I’ll be fucking damned if I didn’t tell you before they come.”

Sansa’s small mewls stopped, caught in her throat at the declaration she never thought she’d hear, not from anyone, but certainly not from  _ him _ . She watched him as he stood before her in the light cast from the fire behind her, the last fire she’d lit to keep her warm on her last night alive, and she knew then that she’d never see the sun again, but it no longer mattered. 

“Oh,  _ Jon _ … I love you.”

She watched as the desire tinted by anticipation in his eyes melted into heated coals, the depth of them almost frightening, yet Sansa knew that Jon was the very last person in this world to hurt her.

He kissed her again, nipping at her lips already swollen from his attack and moaned. He smiled against Sansa’s mouth when she gasped at the sound and backed her up against her bed, sending her toppling over in a pile of furs and laughter. 

“A thousand apologies, my lady,” he said, climbing neatly atop her and returning to his ministrations upon her neck. He felt her move and twist under him, desperate for more friction, more heat, just where she needed him most.

“Sansa, darling…” he said, slowing himself. The hazardous thoughts in his mind battled like dragons on a winter wind. The Dead were coming, were on their way to kill them all, and yet here he lay, in Sansa’s bed, the one bed he desired above all and the one bed that was most forbidden to him.

“Don’t question it, Jon. You felt it the same as I, and the end of the world is coming. Damn all those who are not our pack, Jon.” She looked up at him, running her fingers through his hair where he’d bound the top half back, but he leaned on his elbow and grasped her hand with his free one, kissing her fingertips. 

“Damn anyone who isn’t us,” he murmured in agreement, and bent to kiss her again, full on the lips. 

They became a flurry of movement, hands grasping buckles and fighting with clasps, moans and gasps mingled on heat and breath. When she removed his shirt, Sansa traced the lines of Jon’s scars with her fingertips, as though through them she could kiss every one away. She wished she’d have a million lifetimes to do so before once again remembering what waited for them outside of her chambers. 

_ Their chambers _ , she thought, if only for their last night in this world together. 

“Please, Jon,” she gasped, begging as befit only this moment, only with him. “Jon, please, now. I need you now. I’m more than ready.” Sansa could see what little uncertainty was left in Jon behind his eyes. “Jon, we won’t live to see tomorrow.”

Jon closed his eyes, trying to hide the pinpricks he felt as they welled. He tried to think of something, anything to say, but he had nothing to tell her he had not already done so. And so he resorted to that.

“I love you, Sansa.” 

She smiled up at him, feeling her own eyes well with tears she refused to shed, and pulled his lips to her. Sansa fought with the laces of his pants while Jon worked through the tangled laces at the back of her neck. Finally, he pulled her armor away, and nearly gasped at the sight of her. His reaction to her body, naked and unashamed before his, struck her heart like a dagger, deep and twisting with pain and pleasure alike. No one had ever looked at her before in awe, in pleasure, in pain over a love so deep and societally twisted, and it shook her to the core.

Jon gazed at her, neck, breasts, torso and all, flushed pink with affection and wanton desire. He leaned down and kissed her neck again, this time making his way beyond the mark the neck of her dress had left on her. He dipped a tongue into her collar bone: first her left, then her right, before continuing down the center of her sternum. 

Sansa’s eyes fluttered, half meeting his, half away in a dream, as he closed his mouth around one nipple, flicking it delicately with his tongue before releasing it with a soft pop, and turned his attention to the other.

Jon savored her reactions to him, her soft gasps and moans, his name coming out in a soft breath from between her lips. A sound he heard only in his dreams, twisted and dark, yet coming to light on this last night for them both.

He pulled the rest of her skirts away from her and let them pool at the foot of the bed, but kept his kisses to her ribs, leaving behind bitemarks and bruises in his wake. 

“Sansa,” he said between kisses along the bones that protected her heart and soul, “I want to try something. You’d like it, but I’ll only do it if you want me to.”

Sansa opened her eyes and watched him move along the spanse of her body. “What is it?”

Jon smirked and looked at her from beneath his furrowed brow. “A Lord’s Kiss, my lady.”

Sansa let out a giggle she failed to stifle. “Very well. I trust you.”

Jon smiled, placing one last kiss on her stomach before moving down, ever so slowly. He left bite marks on her hip bones where they protruded from beneath her cream-colored skin, marking her as his own in every way he could. Some would argue their act was not traditional, but premature and in sin, but Jon considered this dance to be the oldest tradition of all, and this time built upon the right foundation: love. 

He could smell the scent of her, hot and heady, more intoxicating than any drink in the North. This land was his land, as her body was his, and his was hers. Each belonging to each other, each born of the one before. 

He ran his hands, rough and calloused from the battles he’d fought and the lives he’d taken, along the soft expanse of Sansa’s thighs, lifting one upon his shoulder, and then the other. Sansa couldn’t look at him, but ran her fingers through his hair, most of it having fallen from it’s tie behind his head. 

When his tongue reached her, light as a butterfly wing, Sansa’s back arched with the gasp that wracked her lungs. Her grip on Jon’s hair tightened, and he dug in with a fierceness that shocked even himself.

His dreams, black and twisted as they were, were coming true before his very eyes. His heart hammered like a man with his last meal, and the back of his brain snickered that perhaps this was just that. Jon knew then that before morning came, he would die a happy man. 

He felt Sansa tighten around him, coming closer and closer to the edge. Jon wrapped his arms around Sansa’s hips, holding her firm as she cried out and found her release while he tried his damndest not to rut against the bed like a boy. He took in the taste of her anew, cleaning her with the ferocity of a starving man, and looked up to see her eyes wide, her face flushed red as her hair, redder still in the light of the fire that roared behind him.

Jon simply gave her a wolfish grin and rose to kiss her lips, swallowing her praise and gratitude. He kicked off his shoes so he could remove his trousers, leaving Sansa’s mouth gaping at the sight.

“It’s not going there tonight, love,” he said, teasing her. Somewhere in the back of his mind he made a promise to let her perform that talent another time, just one more possibly-false-promise to get him through the battle to come. 

Sansa laughed as Jon climbed on top of her, aligning himself with her body.

“Are you sure, Sansa?” he asked, running a hand along the scars across her shoulders. 

She nodded feverently. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I want you, Jon.”

Jon’s chest seized at the emotion in her voice, at the sheer conviction of her desires for how she wanted to spent her final hours. 

Jon leaned down and kissed her forehead, before claiming her mouth in a kiss once more as he slid into her heat. He felt Sansa jump at the pressure and held himself there, daring himself not to move, not to rush her until her body fully accepted his own. He kissed her softly, waiting for her to move, and when she did, he followed her motion. 

Sansa mewled and whined in his arms, legs locked around his hips, pulling him into her. The room was filled with the sound of their lovemaking, of the crackling fire, of the preparations outside, readying them for a war they could not hope to win. 

Jon’s hips snapped and thrust into Sansa’s own, his forehead pressed to hers, watching love pool in her eyes before he buried his head in her neck. She gasped when he bit her there, deep enough to leave a bruise for all to see.

Their gasps began to come in tandem as Jon began to lose his rhythm, coming closer and closer to the edge, and he felt Sansa do the same. He felt a hand reach down between them, performing the duty that good ladies don’t do, and the thought enthralled Jon, but it lasted no more than a second when he and Sansa called out together into the heat of the night.

Later, after they’d gulped each other’s air like drowning men, when they’d washed and lay together in their bed, Jon lay with his head on Sansa’s chest, his dark curls twirling around her fingers. 

“We’ll make it through this night. I promise you, Sansa,” he said, propping his chin upon her breastbone. “And when we do, I will make you my Queen.”

Sansa smiled, brushing his hair from his eyes. “That would be perfect, Jon. Absolutely perfect.”

Jon nodded and sighed. He kissed her again before rising and donned his armor once more before helping Sansa into her own. 

Both knew they’d hold the memory of this night close to their heart until the end of their days, whether that be tonight, or a hundred years from now.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! This is only my second smut ever.  
> Any predictions for 8x03?  
> 


End file.
